


Challah

by SushiOwl



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Baking, Bread, Cannibalism Puns, Domestic Fluff, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, POV Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 02:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16296278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SushiOwl/pseuds/SushiOwl
Summary: "So, tell me, why are you suddenly so interested in bread baking?" Hannibal asked as he set the dry ingredients in a line on the counter."My interest isn't exactly sudden," Will replied. "There have been a few times that I have wanted to learn to make challah bread.""Oh? Tell me how you feel during these times of craving.""Nostalgic," Will decided."For?""Simpler times?" Will raised his brows before he looked away with a shake of his head.♥♥♥Or, the fic in which Will and Hannibal recreate that clay working scene from Ghost with bread dough.





	Challah

**Author's Note:**

> -shrug emote-

When Will walked into the study, Hannibal didn't need to look up to see the jerkiness of his movements. He could sense his tension, could just smell the agitated sweat forming on the back of his neck. Hannibal gave him a moment or two to decide to ask whatever he wished to ask. When he didn't, instead just standing there, Hannibal calmly turned the page of the book laid across his lap. "Something I can help you with, Will?" he asked, still not looking up.

"Yes, but before I ask, I'd like to request that you attempt not to be too smug about it."

That had Hannibal lifting his eyes to Will, curiosity thrumming through him. He closed his book. "I will endeavor to restrain myself."

Will's mouth ticked back at one side. "I want you to teach me how to make challah bread."

Hannibal's ego bloomed like a flower and it showed on his face, causing Will to roll his eyes. "Gladly," he said, setting his book aside and standing up.

"I didn't mean right now," Will said, watching him closely.

"Bread requires quite a bit of proofing before it can bake. If we start now, we can have it with dinner." He gestured to the door as he moved toward it. "After you."

Silently, Will turned, keeping his eyes on Hannibal until the last possible moment before he left the room.

Hannibal followed him to the kitchen, promptly going to the drawer with the aprons. He took the beige one for himself and offered the baby blue one to Will.

After a moment of staring, Will took it and put the loop around his neck before knotting the ties behind his back. "I was almost worried you were about to say something about the color bringing out my eyes."

Shaking his head, Hannibal knotted his own apron in place as he went into his dry ingredients pantry. "Such obvious beauty need not mentioning," he remarked lightly, grabbing the yeast, flour, salt, and sugar. When he came out of the pantry, Will was pointedly not looking at him. There was a tinge of pink to the tips of his ears and apples of his cheeks.

Will was still not used to compliments to his looks, but Hannibal was steadily working to correct that. After all, Will's eyes, round and blue and clear as they were, were something that Hannibal found himself quite lost in at times, which was a new and unsettling, but altogether welcome sensation.

"So, tell me, why are you suddenly so interested in bread baking?" he asked as he set the dry ingredients in a line on the counter. "Also, do get me two small and one large mixing bowls from the cabinet." When Will pointed to one of the cabinet doors for clarification, he nodded.

"My interest isn't exactly sudden," Will replied as he fetched the bowls and brought them to the counter. "There have been a few times that I have wanted to learn to make challah bread."

"Oh?" Hannibal asked, opening the yeast and pulling his measuring spoons from the drawer at his hip. "Two and a half teaspoons of yeast added to one cup of warm water." He measured the yeast as Will watched, dropping it into the small bowl. Then he indicated to a different cabinet. "Please get the glass measuring cup for me. Also, tell me how you feel during these times of craving."

Will went over and got the measuring cup. He paused, running his thumbs over its sides and gazing at it as his thoughts seemed to turn inward. When he looked up, it was with a wistful look that he didn't have very often. "Nostalgic," he decided. He approached the counter and offered over the measuring cup.

"For?" Hannibal turned on his sink and held his fingers under the stream as it warmed up, waiting for the perfect temperature. His water was perfectly filtered and his water heater was the best, so it didn't take long.

"Simpler times?" Will raised his brows before he looked away with a shake of his head. "None of my family are Jewish, before you ask. But when I was a teenager, there was an old Jewish woman that lived on the docks where my father's shop was. She would bring challah bread over to us once a week. Once when I had an especially bad cold, she brought me matzo ball soup every day until I was better."

"That sounds like a fond memory," Hannibal said as he poured the water into the yeast, added a large pinch of sugar then started to stir it.

"I don't have many," Will said, watching as the sugar and yeast dissolved into the water.

"I know." Hannibal tapped the spoon lightly on the edge of the bowl before he set it and the yeast mixture aside. "That will take ten minutes or so to activate."

"How do you know when it's ready?" Will asked, a delightfully innocent tilt to his head as he lifted his eyes to Hannibal's. He seemed to realize immediately what he was doing and straightened up, returning to the passive observer he was.

That was a shame.

"It will develop a layer foam on the top." He nodded to the refrigerator. "Can you get the eggs and join me on this side, please?"

Will retrieved the eggs and stepped over to the counter next to Hannibal. After a tense moment, he set the eggs down, seemingly already out of his element. He looked down at the large bowl as Hannibal placed it in front of him. "Don't you have a stand mixer?" he asked, brows knitting together adorably.

"I do," Hannibal assured him as he pulled some dry ingredient measuring cups from the drawer. "But I felt you would enjoy mixing your first batch of bread by hand."

"A rite of passage?" Will asked, eyebrow jumping up then settling back down. He hummed when Hannibal smiled, nodding. "You overestimate my patience."

"No, I don't think I do." Hannibal pulled the jar of flour over. "Four cups."

Will was very fastidious about ensuring that every cup was evenly measured. He leveled the top with a knife. With that task complete, he looked to Hannibal for more.

Hannibal reminded himself that pulling Will into a kiss now would likely put a halt to this exercise. He could save it for the proof. "One-fourth cup sugar and one teaspoon salt." As he did that, Hannibal pulled a wooden spoon from his utensil stand and laid it at Will's elbow. "Mix, then make a well in the middle."

A hint of befuddlement came across Will's face in one moment, but in the next, he understood and did as instructed.

"Now, have you separated the egg whites from yolks before?"

Will's mouth formed what could only be called a moue. "I have a seventy-five percent success rate."

"We'll keep an eye out for pieces of shell," Hannibal said, shifting his weight to his other foot, so he was closer to Will. "Use the other bowl for the whites. You need seven yolks for your bread."

With a shuddering breath through his nose, Will took his first egg, tapped it lightly on the edge of the counter, before he opened it over the empty bowl. He slipped the yolk back and fork between the shell halves, his movements jerky. He left out a quiet hiss of a curse when the yolk broke on the edge of a shell and fell right into the bowl.

"Gently," Hannibal said, leaning closer and laying his hand against the small of Will's back. "There's no need to hurry."

Will was very tense against Hannibal's hand. His expression went through a short journey, minor ticks of his eyes, jaw, and lips that wouldn't be noticeable to anyone that hadn't studied Will's face at length. Hannibal waited, not wanting to push him and knowing that telling him to calm would have the opposite effect. He had to trust that Will could find his way to his center by using the weight of Hannibal's hand as a guide.

It took a couple minutes, but the steel stiffness of Will's spine dissipated, and he relaxed. He even leaned back, just a touch, but it was enough that Hannibal swiped his thumb across the center of his back in response.

Trust was a fickle mistress between them, here and gone in an instant.

They were working on that too.

Will took another egg, cracked it, and moved his hands much more calmly as he pulled the white away from the yolk. Soon he had seven perfect yolks in the mix and was stirring until the mix was wet. Hannibal passed over the yeast mixture, which Will added as he continued to stir.

"How will I know when it's ready to knead?" Will asked, his hand working harder as the dough got more stubborn.

"When it is impossible to stir even for someone as tenacious as you," Hannibal replied, stepping away just enough to move their dishes out of the way. He tossed a bit of flour onto the counter, and Will quickly took the hint to scoop the dough onto it.

After ten or so folds and pushes of the dough, Will let out a grunt. "Well, now I know why bread making could be called exercise."

"Indeed," Hannibal said as he watched. "One could work out a multitude of frustrations this way."

"And I'm sure you would comment that you could taste how said frustrations sour the bread," Will countered easily, a smile tugging at the side of his mouth.

With his tongue peeking out to wet his lips, Hannibal twisted around so that he was behind Will. He laid his hands on those slim hips and leaned in as Will's breath caught and his hands stilled. "Are you frustrated, Will?"

Fingers flexing on the counter, Will swallowed with a click of his throat. "No," he said finally, voice soft. "I'm… I suppose elated contentment is a good way to describe it."

"Good," Hannibal murmured, pressing his nose softly against the back of Will's hair and taking in his scent. "Very good."

Will began to knead again, and Hannibal watched over his shoulder, hands still loosely gripping his hips. From this viewpoint, Will's shoulders looked strong but narrow. They rolled, power moving down his arms. Hannibal longed to see those arms, but Will rarely wore anything but long sleeves. They were rolled up twice now, just enough to show his flexing tendons and jutting wrist bones.

It was enough for the both of them to be quiet as Will worked, to simply be in close company. What words couldn't say, Hannibal's touch and Will's relaxed readiness to be touched spoke volumes.

"So, how do I know when I've abused the dough enough?" Will asked.

Hannibal let out a huff of a laugh, and his breath stirred the black strands curling against Will's ear. "Here, take the dough, and lift it up," he instructed, his hands blanketing Will's as they did so. "Stretch it thin. If it breaks, it needs to be worked more. If you can see through it, then it's ready."

Will carefully pulled the dough thin. It held. "It looks almost like glass."

"Well done," Hannibal told him, drawing away to go get another bowl.

"You don't need to keep praising me, you know."

"Ah, would you like me to stop?" Hannibal asked, taking up the olive oil he kept out on the counter to slick the inside of the bowl.

Will didn't respond, merely set the ball of dough in the bowl when prompted.

Hannibal covered the bowl in cling wrap then set it in the proofing drawer.

"How long does it take before it's ready to bake?" Will asked, smoothing his hands over his apron. He was standing close, his posture open.

"We'll check its rise progress in twenty-five minutes," Hannibal replied, picking up the egg timer from his counter and turning it. Then he offered it to Will, knowing the sound and slight movement the timer made with every second would be pleasing to Will's senses.

Will took it and held it in his hands. "This doesn't seem as modern as the rest of your kitchen."

It was true. The timer was a rounded triangular shape with the antiquated white, red and black color scheme popular decades past. "Yes, well, if you are allowed to be nostalgic, then so am I."

Brows lifting just a touch, Will nodded, his thumb running lightly over the top of the timer.

Hannibal unknotted his apron. "Shall we wash our hands and sit in the study while we wait?"

They sat across the room from one another in the study. Hannibal took up his book again, and Will hunched over on the settee in the corner, his elbows on his knees and his eyes on the timer. Hannibal had hoped that Will would linger closer, perhaps near enough to be tugged into Hannibal's lap, but having him in the same room was enough.

After a while, Will sat up then leaned back against the cushions. Hannibal glanced over and found him staring, pensive. When Hannibal lifted his chin, inviting Will to say whatever was on his mind, Will said, "At one point you told me that you took up cooking for the same satisfaction you had a surgeon." He licked his lips and lifted the timer. "This makes me think otherwise."

Hannibal closed his book. "When I was a child, I would often linger in the kitchen to watch the servants prepare meals. I was never allowed to participate, though I wanted to." He folded his hands in his lap. "Though I did cook my own meals consistently after leaving my childhood home, I only became… creative after leaving my surgeon's position."

"With the theatricality or the ingredients?" Will asked in a near deadpan.

Smiling, Hannibal put the book to the side. "I've broadened my horizons in both areas over the years."

A somewhat reluctant looking smile turned Will's lips. It was good that Hannibal found someone that appreciated his humor as more than just fatalistic puns.

"If I come to sit by you, are you going to run?" Hannibal asked.

With his expression very bland, Will gave a slow blink. "Why don't you find out?"

Hannibal stood and crossed the room to the settee. Will didn't jump away like a startled rabbit when he sat, so he leaned toward him, one hand on his lower back and the other lying across his thigh. When Will turned his head toward him, Hannibal laid a tender kiss against his cheek. "I do love having you in my kitchen."

"And here I thought you love having me everywhere," Will replied, hesitance laced in with his chuckle.

"Well, I haven't exactly had you everywhere. Some unconventional surfaces may take effort, but I'm willing to try if you are." Hannibal smiled as Will's eyes widened a tad.

But even with the soft pink blush, Will countered with a haughty, "I hope you're not planning on breaking me, Hannibal."

"I only intend to bend, not to break." Hannibal lifted his hand to Will's jaw, cupping it. "If you are willing."

"I haven't run away yet." Will leaned inclined his head just barely into Hannibal's hand. "I'd say that means I'm willing."

To that, Hannibal leaned in and pressed his lips into Will's, sliding his hand back behind his head into his dark curls. Despite his unsure demeanor, Will kissed fervently, as if all the passion he kept behind a dam of skepticism burst forth. He drove his tongue into Hannibal's mouth as he thrust himself nearly into his lap, arms about his shoulders.

Hannibal had to rein him in, to slow their pace into something sustainable, something that they could put on hold until after the bread was done, and they'd had their dinner. It wouldn't do to destroy Will's hard work by leaving it in the proofing drawer because they got carried away and ended up in bed.

They'd burned a roast doing just that not a week before, and Hannibal could distinctly remember the smell of ruined meat. It had been a travesty.

It took a bit of coaxing, but Will's fire cooled to a simmer, and he seemed satisfied with the rolling of their tongues. He even released a little rumble of a laugh when Hannibal nipped the very tip of his tongue. Will pulled him back in by his shoulders, letting out a soft moan into his mouth.

“Hannibal,” Will murmured, a breath away.

“Mm?” Hannibal pulled back just enough to say that Will’s mouth was swollen and spit slick. He had a flash of fancy about what other abuse he could put those lips through before he glanced up at Will’s eyes.

His pupils were wide, shivering. His gaze flicked back and forth before Hannibal’s eyes before he asked, “Have you ever had anyone in your kitchen?” Without prompting, he added, “On your counter?”

Hannibal took a moment to decide whether to answer with a lewd suggestion or a deadpan pun about all the bits of bodies he’d prepared on the counter. He opened his mouth, decision made, but before he could respond there was a shrill, horrifying ringing right in his ear. He drew away with a wince.

“Oh, sorry,” Will said, bringing the timer against his chest and turning it off.

“I suppose we should table this conversation then,” Hannibal said. He added, when Will looked like he might complain, “Unless you’d like to undo your hard work?”

Will squinted at him unhappily but took his hand when they stood and allowed himself to be led into the kitchen. He stayed close, seemingly unwilling to release the tangle of their fingers. Hannibal squeezed their knuckles together but had to let him go to pick up their aprons.

The dough had doubled in size. Hannibal removed the cling wrap and took Will’s hand. “Stick your finger in the middle,” he said, and Will hesitated, giving him a suspicious look, before doing as told. The dough bounced back about halfway. “It’s ready to be shaped.”

Pastry cutter in hand, Hannibal split the dough into three even slices. As much as he trusted Will’s eye, he was not about to have a lopsided challah in his kitchen. Will seemed to understand, since he stood by and watched, wordless, though with a hint of amusement in his eye.

“Now we roll the strands until they are eighteen inches and the same width.” He let Will handle one of the balls of dough, rolling out the other two by the time he was finished with the one. “Now we braid it.”

They slid into the same position they'd taken when Will had kneaded the dough. Though this time, Hannibal was pressed up tighter behind him, guiding his hands instead of holding his hips. Will certainly didn't need help with simple three strand plaits, but he was very open to the way Hannibal touched his wrists and murmured against the shell of his ear. “That’s it. Steady. Try to keep the same loose loops throughout.”

When the challah was shaped and its ends pinched together, Hannibal covered it again. He places it in the drawer for a second prove and handed the timer to Will. Taking it, Will looked at it, looked at Hannibal then pointedly slid his eyes over to the counter.

Hannibal chuckled. “Let us at least wait until the bread is out of the oven and cooling.”

Will’s mouth set in what resembled a dejected pout.

“If you need something to do, help me clean.”

They did so in silence. Hannibal gathered the dishes and took them to the sink. While Will was washing them out and loading them into the dishwasher, Hannibal wiped down his counter. As he did so, he thought about what they would have for dinner.

Suddenly, he asked into the quiet, “What would you eat with the challah when you were young?”

Will’s narrow shoulder lifted then dropped again. “We made sandwiches, usually. Corned beef, Swiss cheese, mustard. My father liked sharp. We had pickles on the side. Sometimes chips.” He turned, drying his hands with a towel. “Whatever was available at the docks.”

“Seaman’s cuisine,” Hannibal said, smiling as Will laughed just a little. He went over to him, taking the towel and folding it. “Perhaps we can something similar. Something we can eat with our hands.” He draped the towel over the edge of the sink.

“You would eat like a peasant for me?” Will tipped his head and gravitated closer, hips first.

“I have been known to indulge in the rustic,” Hannibal told him, lifting his hand to take Will by the cheek. “How about we consume your creation with goat cheese, dried cranberries, thin sliced steak, and a 1994 Cabernet Sauvignon?” He leaned in and laid a soft kiss on Will’s lips, watching the heat in his eyes.

“Do you have those on hand?” Will asked, his hand coming around to toy with the knot of Hannibal’s apron.

“The wine, yes. The others are a mere twenty-minute market trip away.” When Will actually whined low in his throat, Hannibal kissed him again. “The bread has yet to bake. I’ll be back before you’ve even finished tending to your hounds.”

Pressing his lips together, Will nodded, before he tugged Hannibal in for another kiss. The timer went off before they parted for breath.

Hannibal had Will brush the twice risen dough with the egg whites they’d saved and sprinkle roasted sesame seeds along the plait. When the bread was in the oven, Hannibal removed his apron and gave Will another kiss.

“I will be back,” he told him, a whisper against his lips.

“I’ll be waiting,” Will promised, probably going for wry, but his smile was gentle.

The vendors at the market knew Hannibal well. They knew he paid well, and they were always in a hurry to trip over themselves to please him. The farmer gave him her best goat cheese. The field worker supplied him with her freshest, more tart dried cranberries. And the butcher showed him his beat cuts of beef without him needing to make a request.

After acquiring what he was after, Hannibal was about to leave but then spotted the chocolatier stand that only opened on occasion. He picked out a selection of dark chocolate, intending on having Will suck it from his fingertips later.

When he returned home, cloth bag hanging from his elbow, he planned on calling out to Will but paused when he noticed a brindle Labrador mix sitting in the entryway, golden brown eyes turned up to him. He paused a few steps from him. “Hello.”

Winston’s ears perked up, and his tail gave a wag.

“Waiting for me, were you?” When the dog wagged his tail a little harder, Hannibal reached down to give him a scratch behind his ear. “Good boy. Go to your crate.”

Winston stood and trotted off, quiet on the hardwood after Will had capped his and all the other dogs’ nails with silicone covers.

“He likes you,” Will said from the living room. “He insisted on waiting for you.”

“He is a good beast,” Hannibal remarked, heading for the kitchen.

“It means a lot to me that you let them sleep in the house,” Will said, trailing after them.

“I know.” Hannibal opened his fridge and put the cheese inside. “That is why I do it.”

Will released a soft snort. “I’ll finish putting them down. I will remember to wash my hands before I return.”

When Will did return, the bread was cooling, and Hannibal was seasoning the steak he’d purchased. He lifted his eyes to watch Will trek slowly around the kitchen until he was right behind Hannibal. His hands appeared at Hannibal’s waist, palms on his hips and fingertips just below his waist. Will pressed up against his back, nosing his collar.

“Are you trying to make me burn our food?” Hannibal asked as he laid the slab of meat in the hot skillet. It sizzled violently on contact then settled.

“I believe you have more control than that.” Will’s words were soft, spoken into the short hairs on the back of Hannibal’s neck.

At the moment, Hannibal was questioning his control. He shuddered, unable to stop his body from betraying him. He gripped the handle of the pan a little tighter and turned the steak over.

“How would you like it?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. At Will’s raised brow, he indicated to the meat. “Your steak.”

“Bloody,” Will replied. He smeared his lips across the shoulder of Hannibal’s waistcoat--a wild imitation of a kiss--and stepped away. “The bread turned out well. I think.”

“Fishing for compliments? That’s unlike you.” Hannibal smiled at the look Will shot him, flat and a little annoyed. “What? No play on words about how you love to fish?”

“I’ll leave the puns to you,” Will said, rolling his eyes.

Once the food was done, Hannibal had this absurd notion that perhaps they should eat their meal on the food of the living room, almost like a picnic. He pushed that thought aside though. Finger food was enough insanity for one night.

Will walked straight-backed and proud into the dining room, carrying his creation on a wooden cutting board. Hannibal followed after him, feeling proud of him as well as he carried the rest of the food and two wine glasses in his hands. The wine was already on the table in a glass aerator. What Hannibal also had was a bread knife, intent on making thin, even slices of the bread for them to pile their meat and cheese on.

But once Will set the bread down, he simply grabbed a piece, ripped it off, and stuck it in his mouth.

Hannibal paused, taken aback as he watched Will's face cloud over with the memories that the bread brought. He was beautiful, almost serene, standing there chewing his too-big piece of bread, eyes closed and eyelashes resting against his cheeks. After a moment, he opened his eyes and realized Hannibal was staring. His cheeks went pink, and he dipped his head down in embarrassment.

"Does it taste how you recall?" Hannibal asked, moving in to place the rest of the food on the table. He picked up the wine and poured Will a glass.

Will took it, nodding as he sipped. "Yes. Thank you for helping me make it."

"I would be glad to help you make anything you like." Hannibal moved forward, taking his own piece of bread and having a bite. It was indeed good, very good in fact. If he were one to be sentimental, he would say he could taste all the effort Will had poured into the dough.

Will sometimes made him want to be sentimental.

"So, may I ask what had you feeling nostalgic today?" Hannibal asked as they sat and started in on their meal.

"You might think it's ridiculous," Will told him, folding a slice of steak on a bit of bread. He made eye contact, and he ate the piece whole, cheek bulging with it.

It shouldn't have been so attractive.

"I have never found anything you've told me ridiculous," he said, lifting his chin. Will's brow twitched up, and Hannibal hummed. "Alright, but I maintain that your dogs do not need Christmas sweaters."

Will laughed, a light, high sound that he only let out when he was truly content and happy.

"You haven't answered my question," Hannibal murmured, reaching over to skim his fingers along the back of Will's hand and over his slim wrist.

"Mm, you're right." Will toyed with his food. It was a terrible habit, but it was one that Hannibal would let slide for Will. "I've just been thinking about things today. Family. Home." He lifted his gaze.

Smiling, Hannibal squeezed Will's wrist.

After eating far too much bread and doubling Hannibal's typical carb intake for a day, they put up the leftovers and went back to the study. Hannibal forwent his book and took Will's hand, leading him to the sofa where he sat and pulled him into his lap. Will looked surprised but relaxed as he leaned into Hannibal's chest, laying his hand against his neck.

"Now you're allowing me to be all over you?" Will asked, thumbnail flicking against the underside of Hannibal's jaw.

Hannibal just let his lips curl at the edges. "You managed to behave. I should reward you." He smiled a little wider when Will gave him an unimpressed look before he let out a noise of protest when Will pushed him back further and shifted, so he was straddling his thighs.

"Then I suggest you get to it," Will said in a huff, unbuckling his belt. "Because I'm thinking about dessert. We have gelato."

Hannibal swatted Will's hands away, popping the button and pulling down the fly. "Gelato can wait," he said, fishing Will's cock from the hole in his boxers and giving him a stroke. He was half-hard already, which meant he had most definitely not been thinking about gelato. He stroked Will until he was hard, his breath coming faster and through parted lips as he gripped Hannibal's knees. He was trying not to move if the tension in his hips was any indication.

Wanting him to give in--to give more, Hannibal rubbed the pad of his thumb against the twisted circumcision scar below the head of Will's cock, drawing a gasp from his lips and a jerk from his hips. He smiled in the face of Will's glare, finding his blush completely fetching.

Will's hands flew to the front of Hannibal's slacks, undoing them and pulling Hannibal's straining cock from its confines in moments. Hannibal shivered as Will kept his gaze steady, locked on Hannibal's face, as he began to pump his hand. His expression belied what lay below his skin, the wildness that had fueled him in beating someone that was more monster than a man to death with his bare hands.

It was impossible not to compare their techniques as they worked each other. He was smooth, steady, unrelenting. Will was forceful, muscles in his arm working hard. Hannibal might have been trying a little harder than he usually did to get Will off first, but only because he loved watching his body seize with pleasure before years worth of tension oozed from him as he went limp in the aftermath. Alright, that wasn't the only reason. He wanted to win. Didn't everyone?

But then Will tipped forward, grabbing the back of the sofa as he caught Hannibal's mouth in a biting kiss. Hannibal grunted at the sharp pain. He knew when Will was close when he used his teeth more than his lips. He dragged Will in more by the back of his head, feeling their chests bumps and their knuckles brush together. He opened his mouth to the devouring kiss, hand fingers stretching out to take both of them in his grasp.

"Ah, fu--" Will gasped, his hands gripping Hannibal's shoulders hard.

"I can feel you holding back," Hannibal mumbled into his lips. "I think you should stop."

Will let out a quiet sound as his hands slid down Hannibal's arms to his elbows. He pulled away from the kiss to stuff his face into Hannibal's neck. His cheeks were hot, eyelashes damp, and he was gulping air.

Hannibal twisted his hand hard around the heads of their cocks on an upstroke.

Will's cry was high and loud as a church bell, barely even muffled in Hannibal's collar. He trembled, and Hannibal held him until he stopped, his own arousal pulsing in his hand. When Will sagged, Hannibal glanced down and was pleasantly surprised to find that Will had jerked his shirt hem over their joined dicks to catch his ejaculate.

"That is a surprise forethought given your state of mind," Hannibal said, pitching his voice low, hardly more than a rumble in his throat.

Tilting his head up and dragging his nose along Hannibal's throat and cheek, Will huffed out a laugh in his ear. "I'd rather ruin my shirt than listen to you complain about ruining yours."

With a twitch of his lips, Hannibal had Will on his back on the sofa in an instant. He looked surprised, just a little sluggish from his orgasm, but he settled, his limbs falling loosely. Hannibal looked him over, pleased to have him so pliant. "You're right," he said, pushing Will's soiled shirt up to reveal his stomach. He swiped his thumb through his happy trail and along the long scar. "I'd much prefer to ruin you."

Will smiled, arching his back and dragging his shirt up to his armpits. Encouraging. Taunting.

Hannibal leaned forward, bracing himself on the arm of the sofa as he loomed over Will, darkening his form with his shadow. He pumped his cock as he stared into his eyes, thin rings of blue and gold speckled hazel around pupils blown wide with lust. All for him. His gaze went to Will's mouth as his lips parted, a shuddering breath passing through them. Lower still, his narrow chest with peaked nipples and thin, curling hair. And down again, Will's hand played along his scar, as if asking to be marked there.

With a grunt, Hannibal spilled where requested, dropping his head to lean his forehead into Will's. This close, Will's eyes were out of focus, but they were just as intense until the closed, lashes spread like wings. After catching his breathing, he looked down to Will's fingers dragging through the pool of ejaculate on his stomach. Toying and making swirls.

Hannibal sat back, righting his slacks and assessing the picture Will made.

Will smiled at him, apparently content to remain as he was, debauched and marinating in their fluids. "You mentioned Christmas before."

"I did," Hannibal replied, sinking against the back of the sofa.

"When I was younger, I had apple pie every Christmas."

Smile tugging at the side of his mouth, Hannibal lifted his chin. "Would you like me to instruct you in pie making, Will?"

"Yes, please."

**Author's Note:**

> -Unchained Melody plays somewhere in the distance-
> 
> I was really depressed for a couple weeks after my cousin died, so I wrote this self-indulgent fluff. It helped. It is for that reason that any criticism, constructive or otherwise, will be deleted from the comments. I wrote this for me. If you can't be nice, don't say anything. -smooch-


End file.
